The Time of the Dark
by Tarask
Summary: Thorin's agony. Or is it? An attempt at a fix-it story, hopefully within canon, and yes you read this well. One-shot, gen, Thorin centric.


Hello gentle reader!

Thorin, and all the dwarves… Before the films, I'd never have thought I'd become so fond of them! Now I just wish to make them live a little longer. And writing fanfiction inspired by the Hobbit books and three films that aren't up to the LOTR ones feels much less intimidating. So here I am with my first fanfic, though I've been a reader (and a fanartist in other fandoms) for a long time.

Well, here's my little attempt at a fix-it story. Everyone lives, and hopefully within canon, and yes you read this well.

Thorin's agony. Or is it?

One-shot, gen. Thorin centric.

My canon is a mix of the films and the books. Thorin is definitely Richard Armitage's, the other dwarves' appearances and relative ages also come mainly from the film. The events are a mix of book and film (there should have been a tent at the end of BOFTA!). I tried nonetheless to keep my story grounded in the book and the LOTR appendices. Parts of the scene with Bilbo are lifted directly from the book with a few sentences from the film mixed in.

I'm not a native speaker, and I'm always afraid that the words I use don't mean what I think they mean. So don't hesitate to tell me if there's something wrong! Also, unbetaed, because I had no idea where to ask. Same thing, if you feel this is worth it, I'll appreciate the help.

No money is made from this work.

A lot of copies of Bilbo's book circulate in the West. But there's one in particular that Dís, Thráin's daughter, Thorin's sister, and mother of Fíli and Kíli, holds dear. She'll always keep it close to her and will only let her close kin and her most trusted friends read it. For after Bilbo's story, an appendice was written in that copy. The _Tengwar_ in it has an angular quality that betrays a dwarvish hand, and some say that Dís herself wrote it. But there are other rumours.

Here follows what the appendice has to say.

-oOOOo-

When Thorin entered the camp on the eve of the Battle of the Five Armies, it was on his two legs, though his foot hurt abominably and he had to hold on both Gandalf and Beorn for support. Dwalin followed, holding Fíli in his arms. Behind them, Kíli staggered doggedly by himself, fresh blood like a sheet on his face and his hand pressed to his side. The rest of the company, seeing them, formed into a silent, disorganised escort at their rear. As the small group progressed between the tents, those who could stand among Dain's warriors rose and all began slowly banging their weapons on what remained of their shields. Then their words were heard over the drumming, a deep and powerful drone: "Thorin King. Thorin King. Thorin King."

But Balin's face was grave, and soon the rumours spread, first among Dain's people, then through the huddled groups of Men in the ruins of Dale and as far as the tents of the Elves. "A gut wound. Thorin took a gut wound." "Fíli's dead. Kíli's dying, I saw the gash in his head. They fell fighting, side by side." "Alas for Thráin's line! Fíli's spine is broken, and Thorin's dying." "A gut wound, I know that stench." "Balin knows too, he looks devastated. A gut wound." "And Dwalin. I'd never thought I'd see him cry openly." "A gut wound. Now that won't give him an easy death." "A gut wound. Poison in his blood."

Thorin, Kíli and Fíli were laid upon beds covered in furs, their weapons and the remnants of their armours set aside.

The tent was of dwarven origin, Iron Hills made, low and dark and welcoming, but it was one of Bard's men who had prepared it for a king, somehow finding tapestries to hang, carpets to lay; on every surface he had set oil lamps and made them burn strong, in a futile effort to keep death at bay. But then Kíli complained of the brightness, and so the lights were dimmed; yet the dwarf went on talking in a strange dreamy voice of the dark in the mines of home, of his father going with him, of resting in the velvet darkness underground. The hazel eyes of the Elf who, the others found out, had followed them, went very wide and rather wet. Then Thorin began shivering: more embers were piled in the braziers, to no effect. Fíli remained motionless, though his breathing could still be heard.

Healers came and cleaned their wounds; Balin, Dwalin and Glóin washed their beards, their hair, their faces, tears mixing with the water; Thorin's foot was bandaged, other various scrapes, cuts and bruises were found and tended to. The elf went away and came back with another of her kind who bent shortly over Fíli, looked at Thorin with a saddened expression, and set himself to work on Kíli. But what everyone dreaded had to be done, so it was Gandalf who took a knife with his good hand and tore open the gambeson over Thorin's maimed torso. There is was, and it stank: a wide gash with ragged edges, low on the belly, deep and oozing things that weren't only blood; above it, large bruises were turning blue, telling of broken ribs; but the chest still moved, short shallow pained breaths going on and on. "Such a waste," The wizard said under his breath, looking through his eyebrows at the dying king's face. Thorin had thrown back his head, eyes closed, nostrils pinched and white, throat exposed and jaw jutting forward, fighting this last battle as he had fought all his life.

There were bits of cloth and chips of metal embedded in the wound. Gandalf absentmindedly took one of the clean rags, dipped it in hot water and went to clean it.

"What are you doing, wizard?" Thorin's voice was carefully controlled and surprisingly strong. "As if cleaning the dirt would change a thing. Come on, we all know where I'm headed tonight." He grimaced. "Ah. Durin's anvil, it hurts. Please, Gandalf, stop this and let's bandage the thing. Then you'll help me put on some decent tunic, if there's one to be found, and I can set myself to work."

"Work."

Thorin managed a smile. "I'm not delirious yet, master wizard. But this death of mine will take its time coming, so I may as well tie a few loose ends while I wait. Gandalf, may I trust you to bring Dain, Thranduil and Bard here? And –"

"You know you can trust Dain to come, Thorin", interjected Balin. "He's still up near the gates of Erebor, looking for the wounded. But he'll come."

"Yes. And I would bid farewell to my friends. Make amends. Where is Bilbo?"

"Bilbo! Now where is he?" Gandalf rose in dismay. "I hope that – I'm going out, I'll try to find him." He rushed out. "And I'll get the others here!"

Thorin had managed to raise himself on one elbow and looked around. His gaze fell first on the pile of rent armours, then on his nephew's weapons left nearby; finally, he saw the other beds, the forms lying on them. "Kíli!" He howled. "Fíli!" All the dwarves went to him to prevent him from standing. "My sister-sons! The both of them. How – Are they –"

"Both alive – for now," said Balin.

The elf that was still bending over Kíli raised pale, cold eyes. "This one was wounded twice. The blade to the chest, though it must have hurt terribly when it stuck, only grazed his heart and managed to avoid all other vital organs. It's not even bleeding much. The wound on the head, I'm not so sure. There is probably swelling inside his skull and he's drifting away. But keep hope! I've given him a draught and I'm trying to call him back." With that, he went back to his task, softly chanting.

"Fíli –"said Dwalin. "Fíli is alive, but you saw what they did to him, and how he fell. I can't wake him up."

Thorin passed a hand over his eyes. "They fought well," he said. "Mahal's hammer, we all did, however late I was to lead you in. But they – they are so young!"

"Hail! Thorin," Gandalf said as he came back in. "I have brought him." Bilbo stood beside him on slightly wobbly legs.

Thorin thought he looked, indeed, rather absurd with his oversized coat, the mithril mailshirt with his plain clothes underneath and an improbable helm he must have picked on the battlefield. "Farewell, my beggar," he said. "I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, where all the gold and silver is of little worth. I am sorry that I made you a part of my perils –"

"No!" Bilbo said. "I am glad to have shared in your perils – that is more than any Baggins deserves!"

"There's more good and courage in you that you know, Bilbo – Friend. I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate."

Bilbo went down to kneel in front of the bed.

"Farewell, King under the mountain!" He said, crying. "This is a bitter adventure, if it must end so."

"Yet it ends. So go back to your home, Master Baggins, and write down your adventure. Go back to your books. Plant your tree. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, the world would be a merry place."

A spasm of pain wracked Thorin's face. "Water," he croaked. Bilbo hurried to bring some to his lips. Then he looked like he couldn't take it anymore and rushed out.

"The poor fellow," said Thorin, resettling himself. "Went in to have an adventure, found about death in battle and the gloom of victory."

There was a lull. From his half-lying position on the bed, Thorin was curling more and more over his belly. One of his hands was resting on the wound, the other was clenched in the bedfurs, the knuckles whitening. In the tent darkest corner, the elven chanting went on and on; Kíli's voice now had a chanting quality, too, his wavering words seeming to come as answers to the healer. Tauriel was sitting on the ground beside them. Her eyes were still wet and wide, but her face had assumed an intense, focused expression.

Gandalf rested a hand, very delicately, on Fíli's chest. "He breathes," he announced. "It feels – I think it feels like he breathes deeper."

Thorin sighed. He reclined back on the furs, closing his eyes. "Mahal grant me to pass into death without them", he said. Red blotches had appeared on his cheeks. "It's strange - I'm cold. I'm sweating, and I've never been so cold in my life."

"You used to never feel the cold, Thorin," said Dwalin as he bent to lay a blanket on his king. He chuckled, but his voice caught. "Always keeping that blue tunic of yours open. It used to annoy me. Remember that time on Barazinbar, with the portable forge and the ponies?"

"I do," said Thorin, and he smiled.

"Where are all the others?" he asked after a while. "Óin and Glóin, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, Dori, Ori and Nori?"

"Right here outside the tent, keeping vigil, all of them," said Dwalin. "They didn't dare stay in for fear of crowding you and the lads."

"I would like them here, now. Come and enter!" said Thorin, managing to raise his voice in some semblance of his baritone shouting of yore.

They squeezed in, a forest of dwarves in the too-small tent, Nori nearly falling in Tauriel's lap and Dori stomping on Gandalf's foot. Bofur held his hat in his hand and cried on Ori's shoulder. Glóin fell to Thorin's side and took his hand, repeating over and over "What am I going to tell the lad? What am I going to tell my lad?"

Thorin cleared his voice. "Let's not part in sorrow -" he began. Bofur's weeping took new proportions and Nori produced some sort of rag that might have been, once, a handkerchief. "Ah. What am I saying? The parting is grievous." He clenched his jaw and had to take a few breaths before going on. "Still, friends, I'm thankful that you stuck with me in the worst of my madness, and glad that we walked out together to battle for a glorious end. And now I would that you stayed here, and helped me wait –"

"I'm here, too." Fíli's voice was faint, but clear. He tried to rise, stopped and coughed some blood.

"Fíli! Don't move!" said Thorin and Balin at the same time. Then Balin alone "No! Move! I mean, no, don't, don't risk anything, but – you can move your legs? Just – well, show me how you move your toes."

"Thank Mahal!" said Óin who stood closest to Fíli.

"Why are you all exclaiming? Of course, I can move my legs," said Fíli, but the others were looking at him so strangely that he felt wary to try again. "Though the right shoulder and arm, that's another story. And my back hurts."

"You were knifed in the back, lad. Probably punctured one lung. Then thrown down a sizeable height. You've got a broken shoulder and a crushed vertebra quite high in your back. But thankfully, oh thankfully, in spite of the way we moved you back here, nothing has shifted inside. Still, it's going to be quite some time before we let you move on these legs of yours."

"Incredible. Unheard of. Dwarves really are wonderfully sturdy creatures!" said a lilting elvish voice in the back of the tent. "A wounded lung and a broken back and he looks fresh as an _elanor_ flower. And now the other one is coming to his senses. Incredible. Marvellous!"

"The other one? Wait, who are you? What –" Fíli said. "Kíli! You're alive!"

Brown eyes opened, focused. "Fíli? I thought you were dead! And Tauriel? Tauriel was there when I fell. Where is she?"

"I'm here. I'm here, don't fret."

"What about Thorin? Thorin was hurt. Is he –?"

"I'm here, boy. Alive. Still." In his haste to see his nephews, Thorin had propped himself up, half sitting. The blanket slipped and Kíli's eyes fell on the dark stain on the bandages of his belly.

"Oh."

"Indeed. But you, there. Yes, you, the one who's marvelling at dwarf sturdiness. Of course we are strong, Mahal made us so. But isn't there anything you can do for Fíli? Even if you deem him fresh as an _elanor_, he's still seriously wounded. Don't you have a draught, or something?"

The elf slipped between a bristling Balin and a contemptuous Óin to position himself near Fíli. "Ah, you see, we of the Greenwood are more healers of the heart. Of the mind. Of brain and nerves, dwarves would say. As for tending to _bodies_? Well, in these days of darkness of course we have our share of wounded elves, even some dying ones, but it's been so long since elven healers had to deal with – well, with _death_,–_"_ he was mouthing the word with a strange fascination – "_death_ at such a terrible, terrible scale. Alas. Now, the other one –"

"Not 'the other one.' _Kíli_," interjected Tauriel, looking dangerous.

"His mind was indeed afflicted, with a darkness of the soul, a pain too large for his mind and body to comprehend. What we do in such situations is call the patient back with the ancient words of our kin and try to anchor them to life – then the body can heal itself. But that one –"

"Mmmh?" said Dwalin

"Ki- no. Fi- Fíli? Fíli over here certainly doesn't need anyone's help for clinging to life. The Valar know, something went through his lung and he hasn't even the beginning of a fever! Incredible. Now, in normal circumstances, I'd of course advise you to move him so that his good lung is up, to ease his breathing, but then there's the vertebra, and so if you heed me you'll not move him at all. Maybe I could ask my fellow healers to shape for him something we call a corset, so the vertebra can begin to set without him risking to wound his spinal cord?"

"No need. We know. Of course we know!" said a fuming Óin. "What do you think, elf? That we don't know about _bodies_? We dwarves are in a habit to deal with death on a _grand_ scale!"

"Ah, no offense, master dwarf. I am indeed sorry that I can't do anything more for your friend, but really, none of my draughts will help. And I'm sorry about your king, too," he added with a graceful flex of his neck towards Thorin. "For such grievous wounds of body and heart, there's nothing even an elf can do. It's fascinating, indeed, it's wonderful how well his body is withstanding the assault, how minimal the pain remains and how perfectly conscious he still is. I'd wager he can last so for hours, maybe for a day, or more! Yet the agony will come. Alas. Alas that I can't do a thing."

"Alas! Alas, he says!" Balin, mild-mannered Balin finally snapped. He sprang up like a devil in the box, caught the healer by the lapels of his long flowing robes and dragged him through the tent flap. "Then what are you still doing here if you can't even help him? Wonderful, he says. Fascinating. How can you say that of my dying king! Go away. Fast! Go wager with some other fool, before I fetch my axe and you have to find some healer able to reattach your head! You can't do a thing? Go away!" He devolved into a long streak of khuzdul, then crumpled on the ground and put his head in his hands. His brother went to sit by him, put his hands on Balin's shoulders and his forehead against Balin's.

"Thorin, my lad," said Balin. "After losing Thráin, must I lose you too?"

"I'm sorry," said Tauriel in a very small voice.

"Don't be, elf," said Thorin. "No offense, as that twat said. Among dwarves, too, are healers who will talk to your wounds rather than to you face. Though if this is the pain he deems minimal, I rather dread what's to come. At least we know that I still have time. But where are Thranduil, Bard and Dáin?"

"I don't know," said Gandalf. "I sent messengers, but I don't know how far they had to search."

"Then let's wait. I don't suppose anyone's got a music instrument here? What about singing?"

And so the song rose, in the tent and through the camp, telling of the darkness of home and the light of gemstones, of the strength of iron and the brightness of mithril, of the hands of the craftsman and those of the Maker. And this great music spread up and up, though the ruins of Dale and over the battlefield and all around the Lonely Mountain. Thorin joined up for a while.

Dáin, on his way from the battlefield, began to run.

Bilbo went on crying, all by himself in the camp.

Now Thorin's whole body was shaking. Time and time again, he'd press both his hands to his abdomen in a convulsive movement. The bandages had been changed, the dirty rags disposed of, but the stench remained. Balin sat on a low stool close to him and wiped his forehead, under which the blue eyes remained perfectly clear.

"You're in pain, my lad," said Balin. "Where's the merit in suffering more? Won't you take a draught, at last? Not some concoction from these _makalfân_ elves, but the usual from us, to dim the pain and perhaps make you sleep for a while?"

"No! No, I won't. Sorry, Balin. I would welcome all the lucid time that I can get. I don't know what's keeping Thranduil – but if he's still playing his little games, I'd rather keep my wits around me and play a few of my own with him. Now where is he? – Ow."

There was a commotion at the entrance. A dwarf entered, saying: "the elf king and Bard of Dale are at the door, my king. They're asking to see you."

"Ah. The both of them at the same time, then?" Thorin made a small gesture to Balin, one finger raised.

"I'll see to it, Thorin," said Balin in Khuzdul. "Now did you want that clean tunic, or not? I'd advise against it, myself. We've just seen how interestingly elves react in such circumstances."

"You're right, friend. Let Thranduil behold me in all my agony. And you, my sister-sons – well, try to look, shall we say, close to the end? Let us help him acknowledge himself a little more deeply with _death_."

"As for you, she-elf – Tauriel," said Bofur who had unsheathed a large knife. "If you say anything, move in any way, let anything known – ah, I'll have to do something Kíli won't pardon me in the next decades."

"Same for you, Gandalf. We don't want any wizard meddling in our affairs again – though if Bofur does anything to you, I'm not sure Kíli will be as sad. Oh, and Balin?" Thorin called. "Thranduil first, and let's move all the stools out of sight."

"Our king suffers much," Balin was saying to the newcomers. "Though he clings to consciousness, he was grievously wounded – we fear that _death_ will take him soon. We wouldn't overtire him with too many visitors at once. King Thranduil, should you take precedence?"

Thranduil shot a brief look at Bard, then entered in a great flounce of his robes – or rather, he tried: the tent was much too crowded for him to deploy all his silks. By all means, he should have towered over the others, but that didn't seem such an advantage when all he saw looking down was that forest of braids, beads, tattoos and various spiky things. No dwarf raised his eyes up at him. The tent was dimly lit, felt stuffy, and it stank of corrupt blood. Thranduil, who had dealt death in battle so many times and had had his share of tragedies during a life that was beginning to feel too long, nonetheless found himself wanting to get out and all that business to be finished as swiftly as possible.

He squeezed his way to the centre and stood there, his shoulders grazing the felt of the tent roof and his head tilted at an awkward angle. In the middle of a circle of dwarves, some standing, some kneeling, the King under the mountain lay on a kind of barbaric low bed covered in animal furs. The king's breath came out notably more ragged as a dwarf with a ferocious moustache propped him in a sitting position with a lot of – hairy – cushions. His ruined body had been covered, but the blanket had slipped and Thranduil, looking down on whitened knuckles and stained bandages, knew now death for certain. Then Thorin looked up, the first dwarf to do so, a piercing ice-blue gaze fixed on the elf. And Thranduil understood, for the first time, that one so close to the ground could dominate; everything and everyone, including the elf king himself, seemed to be drawn to the solid body of the dying dwarf. It was that Thorin _radiated_. Radiated pain, assuredly, and all of them held their breath at each of Thorin's intake of air. And also, –what, anger? Surprisingly, very little of it. But he fairly radiated power, Thranduil knew at once, the quiet and terrible power of someone who has accepted his own mortality; even, maybe, who welcomes it.

"Thorin King," he said.

"Thranduil."

"I've brought you Orcrist."

"Some diplomacy, at last, elf-king? My thanks. Keep it a little longer, then."

"What?"

"You'll lay it on my tomb."

"Ah."

They looked at each other. The side of Thranduil's lip twitched very slightly.

"I heard one of our healers came here? Alas that our skills at healing battle wounds have so dwindled!"

"Aaaaaaaauugh!" Kíli had chosen this time to utter his best moan of agony. From Fíli's corner came a bizarre strangled wheezing sound, which Balin was relieved – but knew he shouldn't – to hear turn into a spectacular fit of wet coughing.

"Aren't they your nephews? Your heirs?"

"My sister-sons. So, not my heirs. But what does it matter? They were my kin and they fell in battle beside me."

Fíli uttered another wheezing sound.

"I want you to know –" croaked Thorin. He coughed, then winced. "Sorry. I want you to know that I disapproved of the way Thrór handed your gems."

"The white Gems of Lasgalen? You have found them?"

"I know where they are, yes. They're mostly intact. Didn't seem to interest the dragon. You elves seem to be fond of them, aren't you?"

"Dwarf! You can't even begin to know what they mean to us!"

"Yet you as good as pawed them up, didn't you?"

"If you think you're in a position to barter using them as your price right now, then we're headed nowhere!"

"Peace. I am indeed bartering with you, though I'd prefer to call it negotiating. And from your reaction it would seem, on the contrary, that my position is rather strong."

"Says the one who went mad at the view of a single stone."

Thorin pressed his lips in a thin line and briefly hung his head. But soon his gaze rose again and he went on.

"I did say I disapproved of Thrór's decision. A bad political move, that, in the Erebor of old. And since then I've only learnt too well of the wretched feeling one gets when having to paw up their most beloved possessions. I would give you back your jewels, Thranduil. And Dáin will honour my promise."

"Give them back? For what? The Arkenstone? I don't have it."

Thorin felt the waves of pain battering against his defences, menacing to engulf them – so he let the biggest wave course through his body in a great convulsion. Thranduil had the decency to look impressed.

"Let's keep Thráin's jewel out of that," said Thorin, but his smile was bitter. "It is, indeed, not yours to give back. As it wasn't the Hobbit's to take." He took four carefully measured breaths. "No, what matters right now is that dwarves are going to settle in Erebor again. A lot of those who came with Dáin are of Erebor descent. And maybe Balin or Dwalin – Mahal have mercy, it should be Fíli, or Kíli – will lead some of my people from the Blue Mountains. Then others will come, and the sons of Durin will make one people again, a strong one. And anyway, Dáin will stay here and take the crown as my rightful heir. What will they find, King of the Greenwood? Trade, or closed doors? Peace, or war?"

"Trade? So that we end pawing some priceless heirloom again? We've learnt how merciless dwarves can be in trade!"

"Am I not offering the Gems of Lasgalen in a token of good will? I'm on my deathbed, Thranduil, and the only one knowing where they are in all the caverns of Erebor. Are you of a mind to wait for my demise, and go ask Dáin to have a look inside?"

Balin sat himself again beside Thorin. With shushing sounds, he gently forced him to lie back on the makeshift cushions and wiped his brow. Then his gaze, too, went up, the true image of the wise old councellor.

"Elf," he said. "Face it, dwarves will be mining the wealth of Erebor again. In as short as one month, we'll be a numerous nation here. Would it be wise to turn your back to us? Do you really wish to pick up the fight that we so nearly avoided today? But lower your gaze, king, and look at us here. Our king is making you offers of peace in his last hour. Will you deny his dying wish?"

"Aye, he's dying. And I'd never thought I'd come to maybe think it a waste. What are your terms?"

"Winter is nearly upon us. Though everyone will be taking some with them, we'll need food. And wood, lots of wood to consolidate the halls and take on the task of mining. Some stores, what they can spare and send to us, will come from the Iron Hills, and we're thinking of renewing and securing the old trading road to Rohan and Ithilien. But all of this will take gold, time, and probably no few lives. The better road to reopen would be the one to the forest."

"What would you give us, if the Gems are to be a token of your good faith?"

Thorin went back to the fray: "Would you wish for some of the dragon's gold, Thranduil? Beware, for it is cursed!"

"Then what else do you have for me?"

"It's tempting, all that gold, isn't it? Even for an elf?"

"Don't presume to know what tempts us, dwarf."

"Yet you don't hide what you truly need so well, elf. For I have seen your realm, and I have seen your warriors. King of Mirkwood! There's an evil growing in your land – isn't that why so suddenly the most powerful leaders of Middle Earth are gathering around here? I don't think our friend Gandalf is so interested by our local squabbles and our sordid ambitions. Mahal knows he didn't even intervene when dragons decimated our kin in the Grey Mountains. No! That's that danger in the south, slowly corrupting all your pretty wood, that made him, and Elrond, and all these fabled people step out. But will they help you keep the monsters at bay, Thranduil?"

"What, dwarves would come to the forest to our aid? What a ridiculous sight that would make."

"Come, maybe not, yet who knows? But we were talking of an elvish blade earlier, and here lies your problem, and our solution. Your warriors may be decked in resplendent armours, and they may be deadly. But their swords, Thranduil, for all their delightful curves and their beautiful inlayed scrolls, their sword are as old as Orcrist and thrice as worn. They're so oversharpened they are getting thin!"

"You don't have iron in your woods, Thranduil," said Balin.

"And even if you had, you wouldn't know how to extract it properly," said Dwalin from behind the elf, which made the latter jump –ever so slightly, of course.

"And the old trading roads have been closed for nearly two centuries," said Thorin. "Our Ered Luin ore staying in Eriador or going to Gondor by the sea, the Grey Mountains deserted and deadly, and the Iron Hills keeping to themselves. You, you've been reusing what scraps of metal you already had, and perhaps looted what you found on the orcs, brittle impure alloy though it must have been. But your armours are of copper and leather, which shows how dire your situation is."

"If the road were open," said Balin, "the first caravan could come in the spring. Erebor iron was never plentiful, and hard to work. But we'd bring some from the Iron Hills, or the best quality from the Blue Mountains."

"Our smiths would come to you, too," said Thorin. "For the forging of swords is a craft that the people of Durin never forgot. Alas that I won't be here anymore to wield the hammer!"

"Reopening the road will need some securing, though," said Thranduil. "What do you think, Tauriel?"

Tauriel, sitting cross legged on the ground, waited for Bofur's nod and then raised her eyes to her king, learning from her new friends. She didn't mistake the part for which he needed her advice. "Indeed, there's bound to be some disbanded orcs between us and the lake, and even at the forest edge. It's going to be a long, thankless work to purge the hills of that mob. But not to the point that it would hinder trade – of the well-armed dwarvish kind, at least."

"Food," Thranduil said, "we have plenty of it, mostly vegetables, some dried fruits and nuts." He allowed himself a bit of private delight at the crestfallen look of the dwarves – especially since he knew of the dish of quails doused in berries cream waiting for him in his tent. "For a more, ah, carnal fare, you will, indeed, have to wait for the reopening of the Ithilien road, or count on your Iron Hill brethren. Hunting in our wood is chancy at best, and what you kill is not often edible these days. But what we have, we will sell for iron."

"And the wood?" said Dwalin.

"As for the wood, you'll find some trees around Esgaroth – or there might even be some beams to salvage in the town, if the Men don't wish to settle back there."

"But we won't find the kind of beams we need for minework there."

"I could let you cut some trees at the edge of the wood, perhaps. But that would have to be under the close and permanent supervision of elves from my house, and only the trees we'll mark for that use."

"I'm willing to try," said Dwalin. He looked at Thorin, who had an exhausted look, his eyes sunken in his skull. "But now we shouldn't tire you more, Thorin."

"Never mind, brother. Are we striking a deal, King Thranduil?"

"To my astonishment, it seems indeed that we are, King Thorin."

"Then I'll tell Balin where the gems are, and as soon as – well, as soon as this business here ends, he'll get you your jewels. Tomorrow, probably."

"I'm sorry to ask, but it must be done – does your word engage Dáin?"

"My cousin is a dwarf of honour – more than I have proven to be, maybe. He'll stick to my word. And so I have to bid you farewell, King of the green wood. And I – I would thank you for staying with my people when the orcs attacked. If not for your warriors, the dwarves could never have withstood the first assault."

"Though we took our time, and I will always feel shame that I nearly called the Elves back in the middle of the battle. For which I'm sorry, Thorin. And I would thank you for charging in and rallying your dwarves. If not for that mad dash, the eagles would have come too late, I think."

"And _I_ will be forever shamed that we joined in so late, Thranduil. Farewell, now!"

"Farewell, King under the Mountain. May Aulë grant you strength in your passing!"

Thranduil turned back to the entrance, and got enough room this time that he managed a discreet but successful flounce.

"Beware of the dwarves," he said to Bard at the entrance. "They are a tough bunch, and know more than they seem. And they manage to _loom_ at you from below. Still, it went well." With that he departed to his quails and his rest.

"I've made peace with the overgrown imp. I can't believe it, _I _made peace with the elf," said Thorin.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe my ears either," said Fíli. "Are you sure you're not delirious?"

"And you," said Dwalin, "the next time you giggle during a serious trade meeting, I'll –"

"Yet it is a good thing," said Balin. "The peace, not the giggling, I mean. And we stand over one of the greatest goldmine of yore, and we're going to pay for what we need with _iron_? Thorin, you absolute master! Do you think he knew how dire our situation really is with the winter coming and all the dwarves of the West converging to Erebor?"

"The trick was to find what he really needed," said Thorin. "And that wasn't hoarded gold, nor even those pretty stones of his. Which, Balin, by the way, were put in plain sight in the middle of the first hall. Still, I'm not sure that the dwarves will only have to pay in iron. It may well be that our people will have to fight again side by side, Dwarves, Men and Elves. Ack."

"I'm glad you've come to realise it," said Gandalf from his stool in a corner. "We fought a deadly foe in Mirkwood, and indeed I feel that all the people of the West will have to unite to fight it again."

"May those who heard us tonight stand witness when I'm not here anymore, then," said Thorin.

"You played the part of the noble dying king very convincingly, Thorin," added Dwalin after a while. "But do you feel like facing Bard, now? You truly look horrible. How much of it was an act?"

"Not much, I'm afraid, though I may have overplayed the Noble King part." Another spasm wracked his body. He tried to drink, but his hands were trembling violently and the water spilled on his lap. Balin went to refill the cup.

"Don't give him too much, though," called Óin. "Just moisten his lips, or it could cause even more discomfort later."

"I'll see Bard now, while I still have the strength," said Thorin. "Though I fairly dread it."

The crowd of dwarves parted when Bard entered the tent and walked to their king.

"Hail, Thorin," he said.

"Hail, Bard of Dale, formerly of Long Lake," said Thorin. "Tell me, how does it feel to mingle with royalty?"

"Thankless."

"Beware, then, for you may well become a king yourself! I've seen how your people looked up to you when I walked through the camp."

"Me, a king. Dreadful. And now, King under the mountain, why have you called me? Is it fear at the moment of your passing, or guilt, that commanded you to make amends? For I do not wish to talk with you about honour, or what's left of it, anymore. Or do you mean to barter, as I heard you do with Thranduil?"

"I do not fear my passing!" Thorin had meant to shout, but it came out as a croak. "To barter. Is that what you want, Bard of Dale? For I recall that you still have the Arkenstone, for which you have no rights."

"What's right, or wrong, when you have no honour left, king? Now the real face of the dwarves is showing. We are standing on a battlefield, our people, yes, yours, too, are camping among ruins in the snow, and all you're talking about is a pretty pebble!"

This time the shout came clear. "What do you know about it What do you know! I should get up and strip you here and now and take it back! A 'pretty pebble'! You do not even begin to guess what this stone means for us!"

"What do I care about your stone! It can't be eaten! But you, Dwarf, can you even guess how it feels, having a dragon unleashed on your home, the houses burning, the people dying in the flames? Is there an ounce of sympathy left in you for the women and the children and the old that walked up here in the snow, only to find a closed door and a greedy king?"

In his anger Thorin had managed to sit upright, but with a strangled sound he fell back on the bed, his face ashen and his eyes glassy with fever. The stain on the bandages was growing larger.

The circle of dwarves closed on Bard. Dwalin unsheathed one of his knives. "Is that all what you've come in for, insults?" he said. "Thorin is dying, and in pain, and you will now leave him."

Bard put his hand on the hilt of his sword in answer. Emotions flickered on his face, anger, pain, doubt, a kind of despair. "I do not wish to start another war," he said.

Thorin breathed hard. "Madness," he muttered. Then he said in a faint, but clearer voice: "neither do I. Let him be. Bard, will you sit down? We have hidden the stools but we can fetch one."

Dwalin relaxed infinitesimally. The others went back one step. A stool was produced.

Bard turned his shoulders to the exit, then looked at Thorin, then at the stool. He sat.

"Bowman," said Thorin. But the tilt of his head was out of respect, and made a title out of that name. "Had we not awoken the dragon, he would have come to Esgaroth anyway. The next day, the next year, ten years from now… As soon as the gold in the vaults of your Master would have been enough, or just as a passing fancy – your town would have burnt."

Bard growled, half rose. "Some words of comfort, those. Are you denying your responsibilities?"

Thorin's gaze, his eyes now grey as ice under heavy clouds, fixed on him. "I don't. It was I who made the dragon take flight – though we were trying to kill him at the time. The death of your people weighs on me."

"Yet neither you, nor your friends, were the ones burning!"

"No. Not this time. But you see, we are several in this tent to know exactly how it feels to watch your beloved perish in flames. I was in Erebor when Smaug first came. Dwalin and Balin, too." His teeth showed in a mirthless smile. "And since then, we've lived the life of exiles. At first on the road, in the cold, like you and your own now."

"Bowman," said another dwarvish voice, Glóin's. "It was Thorin and his father who lead us on the roads after the cataclysm. Thorin and Thráin who found us a home so far from home. And Thorin, alone, who has been leading us for more than one century, seeing to our needs, even guiding us to prosperity, after a fashion."

"So do you really think," added Óin, "that he wouldn't feel any sympathy for your people?"

"I'm sorry," said Thorin. "Sorry that such tragedy should befall you. Sorry that such horrors will now come to plague you in your nightmares. Sorry for the people of Dale and Esgaroth."

The tent was very still. Bard and Thorin had stopped talking and looked lost in unpleasant thoughts. Then Thorin swallowed audibly.

"As for the Arkenstone –" he began.

"Again?" muttered Bard under his breath.

"Your 'pebble' is an opal", Thorin went on with a half-smile on his sunken features. "A gorgeous one. It is, indeed, worth the price of several diamonds of its size. But you don't care, and even for us the price isn't what matters. When Thráin the first mined it out in Erebor, he didn't sell it nor crafted it into something useful; he just set it free of its prison of stone, and held it high for all the children of Durin to see. Our people had just been thrown out of Khazad-Dum – of Moria – and the Arkenstone was welcomed as a promise. The promise of a new age of mining, of some work and some riches to look forward to; Mahal's promise, perhaps, that we hadn't been forsaken. Then it was passed down from high king to high king of the people of Durin. Thrór father of Thráin my father had it when he resettled under the mountain, and it became a symbol of our power, our wealth and our home." He cleared his voice. "But we went into exile without it. Perhaps you understand, now that you are homeless, how we yearn for it. How _I_ could long for it. Durin's beard, I forsook my _honour_ for it."

"Ah," said Bard.

"I lost my honour, Bard, but I wouldn't like you to think my shortcomings are the ones of my whole race. For some dwarves as for you, the Arkenstone is only a pretty pebble, if very expensive, in the end. Dáin will rule in Erebor as the High King, whether we have it or not – and I don't think it matters very much to him. He never lived in Erebor and he beheld the glory of the stone only as a visitor. No. Maybe the stone of my grandfathers had such worth only for me. Maybe it's better if the Kings under the mountain don't rule by its light. Maybe it's better if they lay it to rest."

"I'll put it in your tomb, then," Bard felt moved to say. "With what happened, the Arkenstone has ceased being a promise of anything but sorrow – you're right that it needs to be set aside."

Then he berated himself for letting go of his only lever in the negotiations. Thorin turned his head to him on the cushions and, noticing his expression, flashed him a smile – the salute of an opponent in a duel.

"Don't worry, bowman. You still have to learn as far as _bartering_ goes, but for nobleness of heart it is I who should have learnt from you. If you will let go freely of the Arkenstone, then I thank you. As for negotiations, well. I don't think we need to have any."

Bard looked dismayed.

"No, don't mistake me! I know of the plight of your people. But do you know of the situation of mine? Right now, the news of Smaug demise and of our victory is spreading. Soon, a great many dwarves, all the people of Durin, and maybe some more, will be converging on the Mountain. And Erebor is, for now, only a very large, very deep golden tomb. We have no more stores than you have and we can't eat gold, whatever the rumours say."

"Then what can you do?"

"For stores, dwarves depend on the elves. As you do, whether we give you some gold or not. Which we will if this is what you ask of us. Smaug's hoard needs to be dispersed, so that the evilness of it wanes. But if you still feel that you can trust dwarves, Bard, then maybe we can rebuild our cities together, Erebor and Dale side by side as it once was. You have the carpenters, but we have the stonemasons and the engineers. If you ask, we will help."

"As for the friendship of old, I don't know," answered Bard. "We shall have to see how it goes with Dáin. But I will take any help that's offered. And the gold." He rose and made to the tent flap. "I'll leave you now, Thorin. You look in pain. I'm sorry."

"Bard of Dale! Before we part, I wanted – I would. Ah. You got us rid of the dragon. Thank you."

Standing on the threshold, Bard tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Thorin," he said.

He stood for a moment more, tilted his head again, and left.

Thorin exhaled. "This is done, at last. I feel… lighter. Though because of my folly, the dwarves have a heavy debt to this Bard of Dale."

"Thankfully," said Dwalin, "he's an honest man."

"You would give him the gold, though?" said Balin.

"I promised it, once."

"Aye."

The pain was unbearable. So Thorin let go of his walls, let himself drown in it. No more a warrior, no more a king, very few of himself left; only the pain. It was liberating.

He felt Dwalin's calloused hand on his arm. "Thorin," he was saying. "Thorin, are you still there?"

"It's only downhill from here," answered Thorin indistinctly. "I only have to lay that mess in Dáin's hands, and then it's done." He immersed himself in his pain again.

"Thorin. Thorin, please. Stay with us. Talk to us."

Thorin mumbled something, keeping his eyes shut. "Is that selfish," he heard Dwalin tell the others distantly, "if I want him to hold on?"

Thorin found himself smiling. "Brother," he said. "Then I'll hold on for you, while I can." He took in a deep breath, as well as he could. "Let's talk, as you bade me. Tell me, friends. How did you like Erebor, now that you've seen it?"

"It's deeper that I thought," said Ori.

"And higher," said Nori,

"Vertical, moreso than the Blue Mountains" said Dori.

"There's _gold_," said Glóin. "I mean, of course there's that pile of treasure I nearly broke my back on while searching for that stone of yours, Thorin, but there's also plain honest gold to mine, veins and veins of the stuff. I can't wait for us to begin to clear the rubble and set ourselves at the digging!"

"And gold is only the beginning of it," said Óin. I saw veins of opal down there!"

"I saw the ruins of the most wonderfully complicated mining equipment you can think of in the deep shafts," said Bifur. "Such gears! Such levers! Such balance! I hope we can set them to work again."

"Yes," said Bombur. "The lifts didn't look beyond repair, thankfully."

"It's dark," said Balin. "Much darker than it once was, and the light of the dragon's hoard doesn't help it. The darkness of a tomb, not of a mine. And found the library – most of the books were charred, or damp beyond repair. All they told me about was how much we lost in the cataclysm."

"Yet we can make Erebor shine again, Balin," said Fíli. "You were the one to always quote that old line about how the deeper darkness holds the brightest jewels."

"Maybe I'm too old, then," answered Balin. "For I feel like shutting off the lanterns tonight, not lighting up new lights. But I'm glad that you younger people will take on the task."

"And you, Thorin," asked Kíli, "what did you think of Erebor?"

"I?" Nobody could have said, right now, whether Thorin looked wistful or incredibly sad. "When I set to Erebor, I thought I would find my home – but I mustn't have thought very much of anything while we were in it. Mostly, what I can remember of these last days is a great heap of gold and the yearning for more. But you, Kíli?"

"It's very grand and golden, that's for sure. But, well, Ered Luin was merrier, I find. Can you believe it? I miss the trees of the Blue Mountains and the smell of the sea." That earned him a surprised expression from Tauriel, and then a wide toothy smile.

"Kíli, you conceived little elf-loving schemer!" said Fíli affectionately.

Kíli answered nothing but took Tauriel's hand in his.

"Yet," said Gandalf, "for all your gloomy thoughts, the dragon has been slain, and Erebor will stand again like the great dwarven realm it once was. Two great goods, all because of what you set into motion last spring, Thorin."

A sudden rush of air went through the tent flap, and with it entered Dáin, a heavy bag on his shoulder.

"Cousin!" he bellowed. "Are you tired of life? I heard the others tell you're dying!"

Thorin winced.

"Shhhhh!" said several dwarvish voices. "He's in pain!" added Óin, at the same time as Gandalf was saying: "hasn't anyone told you that he was stabbed in the gut? There's no going back from such a wound!"

"No going back," repeated Dáin only a trifle lower. "But Dwarves wouldn't know much of the underground if they didn't know a thing or two about mould! That's why I was so late, I had to fetch an ingredient or two and all the necessary tools."

"What do you mean," said Balin, "Thorin isn't dying of mould!" But he couldn't completely hide the flicker of hope that crossed his features.

"For sure, he isn't! But mould could still save him, of course. How is he? Is he still conscious? How's the fever?" He eyed Thorin's sweat-plastered hair, chapped lips and sunken eyes critically.

"I'm still there," croaked Thorin.

"Then why didn't you tell them of the mould? I know that you, at least, have seen it done! And you too, Dwalin."

"Yes," said Dwalin, "I've seen it done, long ago, in Erebor before the dragon came."

"What did you see?" asked Balin, suddenly hopeful, but also not only a little annoyed that something of importance seemed to have gone past him.

"A soldier's medicine, it was, one made so that the blood doesn't poison itself after a dirty wound. It was a kind of draught, or a paste, depending on – I can't remember what."

"Sometimes, it was poured directly in the blood, I think. It was long ago," whispered Thorin. "Aye, we've seen it, cousin. But that's one of the numerous things we didn't take in our flight. The knowledge has long been lost, west of the mountains."

"But, in the Iron Hills, it was never lost! Thorin, will –"

An excited roar of many voices burst out in the tent.

"By Durin's great hammer and two anvils, silence!" howled Dáin. Then, lower, to Thorin who was pressing his hands to his head: "Sorry. Thorin, Bard gave me the short version of tonight's deals – he said you sounded like a man who would welcome death. Is it true?"

"I don't know," said Thorin softly. "While death felt certain, I think I looked to it – and I don't know what I would ask of life. But now that you're offering me a choice –" He looked at Balin's and Dwalin's intense eyes on him, at Bofur's suspiciously bright ones and at all his other comrades. He took a great gasping breath. "I think I will seize the chance, however thin it may turn out to be."

"Yes," said Dáin. "And painful."

"Why?" asked Gandalf, who was beginning to feel very interested by the unknown depths of the dwarves. "If it's a draught, or a paste, is it such an unpleasant or dangerous one?"

"No," answered Dáin. "But the body would still have to find the strength to fight, and the more we wait, the harder it will be. Nothing of that chanting nonsense while dancing in long flowing robes with flowers in your hair! We'll need to get everything clean inside, stitch all the holes and sear what we can't sew. It's going to be a long task, and a hard one. Maybe a doomed one." He looked at Thorin. "And I won't give you something to numb the pain, not in the state you are."

"Let's get this done, then," said Dwalin.

"Let's. But first, everybody out! Except those who can make themselves useful."

"Fíli and Kíli will have to stay," said Thorin from his bed. "They can't be moved."

"I see. Well, it's not like they'll be in our way, isn't it? Besides, we might help them some. Want something mouldy, lads?"

"Can't wait to taste it, cousin!" said Kíli.

"Gandalf," said Dáin, "not a word about this business outside the tent, please. The situation is tricky enough as it is. And off you go, too. Tonight, nobody will be prying on the secrets of dwarves."

"Oh?" said Gandalf. "That's a pity." He sent a long, piercing stare to Thorin. "May Aulë grant you strength, King under the mountain. And the will to live."

The other dwarves had pooled around the exit, unsure they could help, not wanting out so soon.

"Dwalin," said Dáin, "I would have need of your strength. But will you be able to forget who you'll be holding down? He'll probably beg us to stop at some time."

"I could never forget who's there under your knife, Dáin. But Thorin and I, we've been brothers-in-arms for a long time. He patched me up a few times, and I did the same for him." He grinned. "Don't worry, king of mine, you can beg all you want, I won't let go of you."

Dáin smiled. "That's settled, then. If you don't mind, all of you, I'll also ask Beli to come in. He's my wife's brother and I trust him, and also he's your match for muscles, Dwalin."

Thorin lowered his head in approval.

"Beli! You can come in!" shouted Dáin.

"Ow. My head!" said Kíli.

"Sorry. Balin and Óin, please stay. Whether you're versed in mould lore or not, I'll need your expertise with some of the fiddly internal bits. And you, she-elf!"

Tauriel, who was lifting the tent flap, stopped dead in her tracks. "I thought you only wanted dwarves?"

"You're Kíli's sweetheart, aren't you?"

"Huh. Erm. Yes?"

"And you love him?"

"Yes."

"Well, I guess that makes you family, however strange you look. It's not like he's ever going to love someone else, is it? Thorin, my friend, stop coughing like that, it's not good for your wound. And you've got pretty long thin fingers, I see."

"I. I guess?"

"Did you make embroidery in that wood of yours? Elves are always adding all that leafy needlework to their garments."

"I beg your pardon? Well, no, I didn't. I'm afraid I'm not of the crafty type."

"You're not? Well, Kíli always had strange taste. A pity."

"But I've stitched a wound or two, if that's what you're asking."

"Here we are! I knew a son of Durin wouldn't fall in love with someone completely useless. You stay."

"Make her promise she won't babble about anything, at least," grumbled Thorin. "She might be in love right now, but when we are reduced to dust in the stone she'll be dancing around in the woods or whatever the elves do with their trees."

"We carve memories of our everlasting love in the bark," said Tauriel.

"Really?" asked Dáin.

"No. And I promise."

"If you have finished having fun with each other, could we begin?" asked Balin. "It's not like Thorin can wait much longer."

And so they set to work. A few planks were laid upon another bed as a makeshift table and covered with a clean sheet. Thorin, white as the sheet and thin-lipped, managed to shift on it. Dáin opened his bag, getting out rolls after rolls of tools: complicated affairs of iron and glass with one pointy end, small sharp blades of all sorts, pliers and scissors, irons for searing. The braziers were brought close and all the lamps positioned for maximum light. Dwalin and Beli installed themselves on each side of the table.

Dáin disposed various vials of greenish-white thick liquids. He measured carefully some drops in three cups and and fed them to Thorin, Fíli and Kíli. He put some in his pointy glass contraptions, stuck Thorin's arm with one, "see?" he muttered. "You remembered well about pouring some directly in the blood." Then he finally got out a gigantic bottle of something transparent. "Double-refined spirit of wine," he boasted. "No corruption can resist! I paid a pretty penny to the elves. Do you think they drink it?" He began cleaning his hands and instruments with it.

When everything was in place, he asked: "Is there anything you'd like to say before we're at it? You'll be out cold afterwards, whatever the outcome."

"Yes," said Thorin. Then he set his jaw, took in a few breaths as if he was gathering strength. "Yes. Whether I die or not, bury me."

"What?" said Dáin, nonplussed. "Thorin, is the fever spiking?"

"Bury Thorin, King under the mountain. Make it spectacular and tragic, let Thranduil put Orcrist in my hands and Bard set the Arkenstone on my breast. Sing of my great deeds and drink ale, and take the crown, Dáin Ironfoot."

"WHAT?" shouted Balin and Dáin together. They began to talk at the same time.

"Let me, Balin. Did you make such a mess of it that you want to set it on my head, Thorin?"

Thorin didn't answer.

"Well, he did make peace with the elf," said Kíli.

"And sort of promised the Dwarves' help in case of war," said Fíli.

"And he promised gold to Bard."

"Was there a witness?" asked Dáin.

"Gandalf."

"Yeah. A mess, then," said Dáin. "Do you have any idea, cousin, of how the councils are going to react to it?"

"I do. Would you abide by my word, Dáin?"

"Of course I would. But, Thorin. You'd be the one to know how to make the councils come to reason. Come on, my friend. You're exhausted and feverish and the gloom of battle is on you. We'll take care of your wound, you'll take your time to get better, and then we'll have this talk again. If you still wish to abdicate, then we'll advise. But no need to bury you!"

"Don't you think, Dáin? How easy would it be, to make everyone agree with it? Wouldn't there be factions? Intrigues? Strife?"

"There might be. Ah, and stop that! You've been the leader of your people for nearly one hundred years, and now, right at the moment of victory, you would set yourself aside? What's that madness?"

"Madness. Is it what it is about?" Balin asked softly.

"Ah, Balin," said Thorin. "Madness. Sickness. They call it so, Gandalf and the others. Thranduil. Bilbo. And you, did you think me mad? That the dragon poisoned my mind? But maybe it was only greed." He cleared his throat.

"Is he delirous?" he heard Dáin ask under his beard.

"A king, again, under the Lonely Mountain. Strong, majestic, wealthy, powerful. How I dreamt about it! The greatness of our forefathers, restored at last. How I used to fear it, this task that Thrór and Thráin bequeathed on me. How I used to long for it."

In the tent everyone was still. In its centre the lamps still shone bright, illuminating Thorin's face and making more apparent the alteration of his body and the pain etched in his face. Balin shook his head, slowly. Thorin went on hoarsely. "And then I sat on the throne and put Thrór's crown on my head. And all I could think of was the gold! Such a fine figure of a king I made – you told me as much, Dwalin. I distrusted my kin, nearly killed my friend, let go of my honour, and in the end, nearly forsook my courage. Who knows how many lives would have been spared, had I come earlier into battle? And all of this for a treasure and the stone of the kings of old."

He fell back on the sheet and lay very still, eyes closed. Dáin looked alarmed. "Thorin?" he said softly.

Thorin smiled faintly. "Dáin. Don't tempt me with that kingdom. Or those treasures. I might take them, and fall back into madness. It is not the leading that I fear. It's that I could forget how it's done. It's the face of Thrór in his last years, reflected in a mirror of gold when I looked into it."

"You would abandon us, Thorin?" It was Dwalin, looking, for all his muscles and his tattoos and his scars, like a lost and forlorn child.

"Abandon you?" Thorin's voice broke. "How – Dwalin, I – Listen. You. All of you, my kin, my friends. I could never abandon you! And the people from our exile, the Dwarves from west of the Mountains; those, also, who followed us in battle yesterday, those from Erebor who miss Thráin… It might come to pass that I'm not their king anymore – but they'd always be my people."

"Then what –" asked Balin?

"If you would pass into anonymity," said, unexpected, Kíli's voice, "then, uncle, may I be buried beside you?"

"And I, too," said Fíli.

"They'll say we fell side by side, defending you. And we'll become legends together," added Kíli.

"But, but, Fíli, you were the one talking about rebuilding Erebor!" said Balin.

"Only we couldn't rebuild it together, Fíli and I" said Kíli. "I doubt Tauriel could stay long under the Lonely Mountain."

"And I won't be separated from him," said Fíli. "Besides, I could always visit Erebor and help, one dwarf among so many."

"We want to follow you, Thorin," they said in unison.

"Then listen to me, all of you, because I won't be able to talk much longer." And indeed, Thorin's voice was barely above a whisper. "You may think my wits are addled. But let me tell you, my mind hasn't felt that clear in a long time. You will bury me – and if they wish, you'll bury Fíli and Kíli, princes of the line of Durin. Indeed, it would warm my heart to have you by my side, my sister-sons. Then, if I wake up, I'll just be Thorin, the name is frequent enough among the dwarves. Some will know me, and if they wish, I'll still be the Oakenshield to them – that name I earned with my deeds and didn't inherit from my sires. Or rather, I'll be _'Azgharz-amrukh_, only in Khuzdul, and never to be revealed to outsiders. I'll go to back to the Blue Mountains, to help those who wish to make the journey back, or to counsel those who wish to stay. And if you would like me back here, Dáin, I'm at your service to help you settle in as the King. But I vow, here and now and forever, never again to claim the rights of my line, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór no more. And never to be known as such outside my own people and kin. Let it be known among our kin that Dáin Ironfoot is my liege and king." He managed some shadow of a bow from the table.

"No. I'm not your liege, Thorin King, before you're buried." And Dáin bowed to Thorin. "But afterwards, if this is your wish, so be it. Though I still think you're not right in your mind." His eyes shrank to slits. "And listen. I won't have strife between the dwarves. If I'm the king, then I'll be the king of all the people of Durin and you'll have to make your people acknowledge it. You're a formidable dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield, regal and powerful. People want to follow you. Durin's hammer, even _elves_ rallied to you in battle today."

"You're not so shabby yourself, Dáin Ironfoot," said Thorin weakly, "who killed your first orc chieftain when you were a child. I'll see that my kin bows to you, not that I would fear they wouldn't."

"And I would indeed ask for your counsel in the years to come," Dáin added. "You, not I, were the one who grew up in Erebor. But come. If you truly want a chance at life, you don't have that many time left. Let's get to that wound."

Thorin surrendered himself to Dwalin and Beli pressing him down on the table. As he felt rough hands undo the bandages and prod his burning flesh, he raised his gaze to Dwalin who looked deadly serious as he told him: "don't be a stuck-up idiot this time, Thorin. If it hurts, cry."

He tried to breathe deeply though it made his ribs hurt.

Then he heard the cry, a long howling cry that couldn't be his but somehow was. Balin and Óin had to add their weight to pin him to the table as he tried desperately to get away from Dáin, from the burning liquid he was pouring on the wound, from the horrible scraping and the pain like a dragon uncoiling in his guts.

They'd been at it for hours or maybe it was days or really only a few heartbeats but Thorin couldn't remember anything except the pain except the stench except the blood from his bitten tongue except his heart beating so frantically it would surely burst and through the red mist he heard Óin say: "I wish the sturdiness of dwarves were only a legend. I wish he could faint."

But he wasn't fainting and while they were cutting and stitching and cutting some more and that terrible scraping and that stink of burning flesh he wept and cried and howled until he was hoarse, and then cried some more.

But he didn't beg.

Outside in the camp, elves began to sing to Elbereth for her to ease the passing of the dwarf king. But a few of Dáin's warriors looked at each other and said: "Mahal give him strength," and hoped.

The surgery had begun when the night was already old. Now the sun was past midday, a cold clear winter sun that was painting squares of light on the ground near the entrance. Thorin had finally passed out, not so long ago.

Tauriel laid down her needle at last. "Are we done?" she asked.

"Aye," said Balin, wiping his brow with a bloody hand.

"Here," said Dáin. "Wash yourselves up. We can't be seen like that in the camp."

"Will it be enough?" asked Dwalin while bandaging Thorin anew.

"I don't know," answered Óin. "The fever is high. We shouldn't have waited so long."

"For sure," said Dáin. "But of all the pig-headed kings of the line of Durin, this one's –"

"Yes," said Balin. "Will we bury him?"

"Let's wait to see which way it goes. I wouldn't lay down his some effigy of him in the stone only to have to mourn him again the next day. How are the nephews?"

"They sleep," answered Tauriel. "But they look good."

"Then let's put some plaster and splinting around Fíli's chest and bring them all into the mountain. They'll fare better in there and there will be fewer prying eyes."

Once again the company walked through the camp, towards the causeway and the gates of Erebor. Once again, warriors fell silent and rose at their approach. But this time, Thorin wasn't walking.

Dáin was leading the way, his helmet in his hands, his shoulders bowed. Thorin followed, born on a stretcher by Beli and Dwalin, Balin at their side. Fíli and Kíli were behind, lying equally motionless on stretchers held by Glóin, Óin, Bofur and Bifur. Bombur, Ori, Dori and Nori went after them. Tauriel walked a few paces behind, deep in thoughts.

Gandalf accosted them. He sent a sidelong glance to Thranduil who was striding toward them and said with a conspiratorial air: "how did it go?"

"Nothing is certain," said Dáin noncommittally. "The fever has spiked and he's out cold. We'll have to wait." Then he decided to add. "It seemed to me that his wits were addled tonight. He spoke a lot of his burial. I'm not sure our king had much will to live left."

"I thought as much," said Gandalf. "For a time, dragon sickness made him into the opposite of what he once was. And in the end the true Thorin managed to wake up, only to behold what he had done in his madness. It felt like he didn't think he could go back to his old life."

Gandalf's troubled expression felt genuine to Dáin, which made the dwarf wonder if he should tell him more. But wizards were famous meddlers, so he decided against it. He was wondering whether he would have to lie about Fíli and Kíli when, to his perverse relief, Thranduil caught up with them. Lying to the elf wouldn't feel difficult at all.

"Is it the end?" said the elf king with downward nod to Thorin's form. In the stark daylight, the dwarf looked like his own stone effigy, his skin ashen grey except for the dark bruised-looking circles around his eyes. "Has he gone?"

"He's unconscious and unresponsive, but he's still alive. This isn't the end, not yet," answered Dáin, making discretely the sign of the hammer behind his back while uttering the last words.

Thranduil's eyes moved to Balin's beard and he asked: "Has he been bleeding?"

Balin fought the urge to look down for specks of blood and said: "yes. He haemorrhaged tonight, when he became agitated. We had a hard time trying to staunch the blood."

This is not as if it wasn't true, Balin thought with a sinking feeling. The blood loss had probably been the main raison of Thorin's passing out.

"We heard him this morning," said Thranduil, shivering. Then he advised Tauriel in the back, nodded once, and went back to questioning Dáin. "And the nephews? The healer told me that he thought them out of harm's way, but - ?"

"Alas," said Dáin. "They were conscious in the evening, for which we thank your healer, as it gave us time for parting. But they, too, could only talk of their burial – and then they took a turn for the worse." The sign of the hammer was back in full force and Dáin thought he could see Dwalin make it too.

"You look exhausted, Dáin – and all of you," said Gandalf.

"The night was gruesome," said Dáin. "And the morning."

"Will you rest?"

"We'll all rest in the Lonely Mountain this afternoon. And them –" he said with a tilt of his head towards the wounded.

"May they rest untroubled," said Gandalf, frowning in sorrow.

"May they rest untroubled," echoed all the dwarves, all of them with one hand behind their back. Then they went end entered the gates.

Thorin dreamed of gold for two days. Once, he would have thought the prospect appealing, but these were fevered dreams and nothing in them was pleasant. There was Thrór, his throne set upon the dragon's hoard, giving the Arkenstone to Bard and saying: "you failed, Thorin. Without Bard you would have achieved nothing. He's the one who slayed the dragon and he will be the next king under the mountain. Give him the gold!" There he was himself, down at the foot of the golden heap, knowing he must catch the Arkenstone before Bard took it, but he was very small, and the heap very high, and somehow Thráin was there, too, trying to push him up, but for all his climbing the coins would shift and he remained where he was. Then he noticed that Thrór had the body of a dragon, and it slithered through the treasure until Thrór's head was level with his own, and Thrór wore the circlet of the elven king. "To jail with you! You failed!" Thrór shouted. Then Thorin was again in Thranduil's gaols and all of his company were there too, looking accusingly at him. "But the dragon would have woken anyway," he tried to tell them, but they would not listen. And then he was trying to buy Kíli's freedom with the Gems of Lasgalen, because Bolg was in the cell with Kíli and was stabbing his nephew in the heart and Fíli was there too, lying on the ground and bleeding, and Thorin was howling Fíli's name but no one would notice and Kíli was saying "It's all right, Thorin," while trying to make him drink something. But Thorin didn't heed him because Bolg was there, and Azog, too, and he had to kill them both but they had taken his sword and all he had was that golden statue that was neither very big nor very sharp. And Dáin was coming with his army but it was too late and he would call Thorin's name and take his hand and feel his brow but Thorin had to leave because Azog was still there and still needed killing. But Dáin was still calling him and somehow Balin and Dwalin were with him and they were pouring something down his throat.

On the morning of the third day, Thorin took a sword from the hand of Thranduil, killed the Azog of his dream and gave back the crown of Erebor to Thrór with a smile, after which he woke up to an ocean of hurting. He didn't know what was worse, the twisting in his gut, the stabs in his ribs at each breath, the throbbing in his head, the one in his foot or the all-encompassing aching, and since he didn't want to know anyway he fell back asleep. But this time he truly rested, and didn't dream.

He woke up again in the late afternoon. He lay in a comfortable bed set in one of the rooms in the higher levels of Erebor. There was a fire in the hearth and large windows showing only the sky; their glass panels had miraculously survived. Kíli was reclining next to him, propped on a pile of cushions. Turning his head with a groan, Thorin saw Fíli who lay a little further on another bed, motionless, his breathing laboured. He took a deep breath, was rewarded with a stabbing pain in his ribs and cursed.

"Thorin!" cried Kíli.

"Thorin!" said Fíli in a hoarse voice, then he coughed and spat some blood. He cursed.

"Fíli. Kíli," said Thorin, and he smiled. "Are we buried yet?"

"No, not yet," said Fíli. "They were waiting to see whether you'd make it."

"Fíli, don't exhaust yourself," said Kíli.

"How are you both?" asked Thorin.

"I'm fine, though my head hurts and everything spins when I try to stand," said Kíli. "Fíli had a bit of a hard time: the fever finally came and his lung gave Dáin a bit of trouble."

"Yeah," said Thorin, "no need to bury us only to have to do it again the next day."

"Exactly," answered Kíli. "But thanks to mould, Fíli's getting better. And Dáin was here this morning and said you're out of harm's way. The fever abated, and, oh my, you're farting." He showed his teeth in a large smile.

"Oh how you're farting," added Fíli sombrely.

"Óin says this is a good sign," Kíli went on. "Me and Fíli, we can see a few downsides. Anyway, since you're hale and hearty –"

"And gassy," added Fíli,

"– they all went off to set our funerals into motion."

They looked at each other, rehearsing their conversation. Then looked some more and burst into a great laugh.

"Aaauuuuugh!" moaned Kíli, one hand pressed to his forehead and the other on his chest, and this time it wasn't for show. He cursed.

"Ugh," said Thorin, curling over his belly. He cursed.

Fíli's curses were unintelligible, merging in a fit of coughing. He caught his breath. "This convalescence is going to be awful," he said dejectedly, "if we can't even have a bit of fun."

"I can see the upside of this, myself," said Thorin.

They lay in companionable silence for a while.

"When is the burial scheduled?" asked Thorin finally.

"At sunset," answered Kíli. He looked through the window. "It should be soon. That's why Balin and Dwalin left your side. They were here only a moment ago, but of course the whole company have to stand at the place of honour for the ceremony."

"Thorin," said Fíli thoughtfully. "Shouldn't Bilbo know about this? It feels like he earned it. And you're fond of him, aren't you?"

"Hrm. I was. Ah, well, I still may, in a way. But all this business with the Arkenstone – I don't know. Can he be trusted with such news? Bilbo's not the kind of person who will keep things to himself. Durin's beard, I'll eat my own if he doesn't write about his adventure very soon! And he definitely showed us he'll do whatever he thinks needs doing at the time, whether _we_ think it good or not." He halted, thought for a time, and went on. "Besides, it seems to me that he's a little too fond of elves. No, I don't think we'll tell him. But listen, I'll get a word to him. A letter that we could say I wrote after we parted that night, renewing my thanks and assuring him of my friendship. Hobbits love letters. Now what's this?"

A deep bellowing sound echoed in the room, so strong it seemed the whole mountain was shaking.

"The great horns of Erebor," said Thorin.

"The sun has set," said Fíli, and he set his mouth in a strange line.

Thorin saw it. "Fíli, are your sure –"

"It's too late to change my mind, isn't it? And I'm sure of it, uncle. Better you and Kíli than Erebor."

"They'll be dimming the lights right now," said Kíli. "Shall I –"

The others nodded. Kíli rose gingerly, banked the fire and half-closed the mining lantern standing on the table. "It feels strange," he said.

As high inside the mountain, the last lights of the day coloured everything a soft pink in the room. But deep down in the windowless great halls, only the dim light of torches would remain among deep shadows.

Thranduil's shadow was long in the flickering light while he walked majestically to Thorin's body lying on a great slab of stone. He lay Orcrist in the dead king's hands, taking some time to look at his resting face. It looked waxen, he thought.

"- And I modelled it myself," Kíli was saying in the upper levels. "Out of wax, which Bombur had to pry out of Beorn's hands. Let me tell you, dyeing it in a believable colour was the real problem. Nori and Dori spent the morning trying all kind of pigments and oxides!"

"And the hair?"

"Ah, the hair. Mountain goat, it is. I'm afraid it's not very lifelike. But then you're supposed to be dead and anyway they put some sort of helm-crown on your head, hiding a lot of it."

Thranduil put his hand on his heart, bowed to Thorin's form, then to Kíli's and Fíli's lying on two slightly smaller slabs on each side of their uncle's.

"- I couldn't make my own face, nor Fíli's. Too strange," Kíli went on. "So Ori set himself at it. Tauriel wanted to help, but I'm afraid she's right when she says she's not very crafty."

"A pity," said Fíli.

"She holds her own with a needle, though," said Kíli who felt he had to defend her somehow.

Thranduil turned back and Bard stepped forth. The Arkenstone glittered in his hand, at home in the shadows. As he put it on the dead king's chest, a hushed murmur passed through the assembly, together with a few exclamations of dismay and many more of awe. He bowed his head and stood motionless for a few moments. Then he went back to his place.

One torch was blown off. Dáin rose and in his great voice he sang of Thorin's last battle, of his fearless charge and of hope renewed, of his great axe and his sword and the death of his foes, of the king and his kin fighting and falling side by side.

But as another torch was taken off, Gandalf looked very grey indeed as he stood leaning on his staff, and he said simply: "farewell, King under the mountain! Farewell, Fíli and Kíli, gone too soon!"

There were only two torches left when Dwalin took a step forward, a drum in his hands. He had feared he wouldn't find the words, not for someone whose very warm and very alive hand he had been holding only one hour before. But as the memories came to his mind so the song took shape, telling of a warrior and his king. His deep voice went low as he recalled exile, and losses, and grief; and then grew strong with the tale of forges and metal and sword; and of battle, and comradeship, and standing side by side like brothers, axes and swords in hand. Then his song became a great roar, victory and grief and even hope, it seemed to some, mashed together in the booming verses.

"That was Dwalin," Thorin said.

With one torch still burning, Balin then took his turn. To the surprise of his friends, there were tears on his cheeks as he said simply: "This wasn't what we dreamed of when we set off for Erebor." And then he shouted with all his might "Farewell, Thorin king!" Then the slabs of stone were lowered in tombs of granite and Balin blew off the last torch.

"And this was Balin," said Fíli. "Your choice grieves him."

"I know," said Thorin. "I guess, also, that all the dead of Erebor are in his heart tonight."

"It must be the Time of the Dark down there," said Kíli who had been keeping count, listening to the faint sounds from below. He rose and shut off the lantern.

In the absolute blackness, Dáin's iron boots ignited a spark as he stepped forward again. "Let those who are not of the people of Durin know of the great honour we're doing them in letting them hear the words of the Time of the Dark!" he said.

In the silence, he then intoned: "Darkness in the beginning, and Darkness in the end. For in Darkness Mahal made us, and in Darkness Durin woke up."

Many voices joined him.

"For here is the Dark that makes the jewel shine brighter.

Here is the Dark that guides the hand of the miner

And here the Dark that makes the red of the forge truer.

In life and death the Dark is beside us

And out of the Dark we craft the brightest lights.

In battle the Dark is beside us

And out of the Dark we came fighting!"

They paused and Dáin went on alone: "Now the last torch has been blown, and here comes the Dark at the end of the light. Those who died lie in its embrace, Thorin King of the line of Durin and Fíli and Kíli his sister sons, and Baldur my friend and Bari his son and Thekk and Lit and Vitr, Nyr and Nyrad, Rekk and Radsvin and so many of our kin. The Dark welcomes them, the Dark guides them, the Dark takes them to the shining lamps in the halls of our fathers."

"– the Dark takes them to the shining lamps in the halls of our fathers," said in unison Thorin, Kíli and Fíli. They had seen many dwarves fall on the day of the battle, and some of them had been from Erebor before the dragon came, among them Thorin's acquaintances and even friends long lost.

Down by the tombs there was a rustle as another dwarf moved. Then Balin's voice said high and clear: "People of Durin! Thorin was our King! For in the beginning woke Durin, and his son Groin took the crown after him. And then came Skafin his son and Dwalin Skafin's brother and Durin Dwalin's son –"

The litany of names filled the great hall as all the dwarves joined again, rising in power with each name of a king. "– And Thrór son of Dáin second King under the mountain, and Thráin his son, and Thorin his son third King under the mountain!"

Balin then said: "Now the body of Thorin, King under the mountain, lies under the stone. Let Dáin son of Náin son of Grór son of Dáin king of the people of Durin take the crown and out of the Darkness come to the light!"

There was a shower of sparks as Balin stroke a light and lit up a torch.

Dáin took the torch and held it high, saying: "Now the dead are feasting in the halls of our fathers." And he thought, privately, that there were three of those who were indeed in the halls of their fathers, and who'd better not feast too much or they'd know his wrath. He went on. "Let us go drink and eat to them and remember them!"

Bilbo was sobbing.

-oOOOo-

Thus Thorin Oakenshield, King under the mountain, passed into legend. The story of his quest went on to be told everywhere in the West, from the humblest abode of Men to the loftiest court of the High Elves. But among themselves the dwarves tell other tales.

First, there are the myths. They tell of a king so strong and so proud he cheated Mahal at the time of his death. They say that Mahal condemned him to remain in Middle Earth, toiling along his people and carrying their burden until the Earth becomes flat again.

They say he'll never die.

Then there are the stories. They speak about Oakenshield, the great warrior who rejected kingship. Some stories say he went away to find a great love. Some others say his great love was always at his side. Some even talk of his children, who sometimes are two budding dwarf warriors and sometimes two stocky human girls with five o'clock shadows, or even two foundlings of uncertain origin; but other stories say he was content with the two princes who walked by his side, one dark and the other blond, and called them his sons.

Some say that he could never completely forget the call of his blood, and that he died in Moria on the steps of the western stairs, protecting the retreat of his friend Balin. Some others say he was in Erebor with Dáin and Dwalin when the Nazgul stroke, and that all wondered seeing the three white-bearded warriors so old and yet so strong. Some say he fell there, an anonymous death among many, though Dwalin mourned him. And in other stories he survived, and went on living for a long time, survived only by Dwalin, but not for long, and by Fíli and Kíli.

And then, of course, there are the elvish tales, though gossip would be perhaps more accurate. They say Tauriel never stopped mourning her dead dwarf prince, and that she went into the West. Then they add that what they mean is of course that she went west of the mountains, and that her belly was swelling suspiciously when she did so. They hint that the Grey Havens are awfully close to the dwarves' halls of Ered Luin, and that perhaps she couldn't quite shake off her taste for short bearded _lovers_. They also say they find it strange, how the dwarves of Ered Luin have turned friendly to the elves of late.

And here is what we know. We know of a tall dwarf of proud bearing, with more grey than black in his hair but a beard mostly black, who would stand at Dáin's elbow from time to time. He wore a simple attire of blue wool and black leather, and what surprised newcomers is that they'd never hear his name; he was always called by something in Khuzdul and nobody would tell them what it meant. It is not our place to tell whether he loved, or had children; but we've heard that he'd indeed call the two younger dwarves by his side his sons. We've been told that the three of them wouldn't ever stay in the same place for long; though they'd say they enjoyed Ered Luin the most. Of his great deeds we won't write here as he wished them to remain unknown. But we know he delighted in his forge and in his friends, among whose seemed to be all of the Company who once set off for Erebor.


End file.
